


Right Here Beside You

by MoonytheMarauder1



Series: A Heart That's Been Loved [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Arranged Marriage, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Letters, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Party, Portrait Walburga Black - Freeform, Portraits, Trapped, Werewolf Remus Lupin, Wine, lycanthropy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23838622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonytheMarauder1/pseuds/MoonytheMarauder1
Summary: The words she wrote down decades ago somehow mean more to him than anything else in the world.(Part 3 of A Heart That's Been Loved)
Relationships: Walburga Black/Remus Lupin
Series: A Heart That's Been Loved [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687801
Kudos: 4





	Right Here Beside You

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hey, y'all! It's an odd pairing, I know, but I was asked to, so... *shrugs*
> 
> Anyway, I hope you're all keeping safe during these times.

Remus first discovers the letters by accident. 

He was cleaning out Sirius’ parents’ room, since his friend refused to step foot there considering his… less than ideal childhood. So, it became Remus’ job to take care of matters there. 

He tries not to think about all the other messes he’s been cleaning up for Sirius lately. 

Remus walks over to what used to be Walburga Black’s vanity, but the wood has mostly rotted away by now. It takes some tugging, but Remus manages to pull out a drawer without pulling off the handle. Inside are stacks upon stacks of yellowed parchment, curled and wrinkled with age. He reaches out to grab them, then thinks better of it. A few well-placed spells later, and the protection on the papers is removed; Remus allows himself a moment to be smug. 

He takes the paper gingerly. He’ll have to read them all, he knows—there might be valuable information, about the house or even about the Death Eater movement. He sighs heavily and starts at the bottom of the pile. 

Walburga’s cursive is small and cramped, but there isn’t a blemish on the page. No shaky letters, no blots of ink; it’s almost unnatural. Remus frowns and brings the parchment closer to his face. 

_ Orion is back today. He is charming, arrogant, and just as respectable as any pureblood can be. I hate him.  _

_ I remember when we were cousins—we’ve ceased to be that somehow, at sometime—and he would chase me through the gardens. I liked laughing with him. I liked being free. But as soon as he puts that ring on my finger, those days will be lost to us. _

Remus quickly looks away. He shouldn’t be seeing this, he knows; he doesn’t want to pity Walburga Black. He doesn’t need to know anything about her, because he already knows that she was a mother who pushed her sons too hard and who had hardly a modicum of compassion in her body. 

He should put the parchment back—it’s clear that this was a diary of some sorts, and there isn’t much reason for Remus to go looking through all the entries. 

And yet, he finds himself reading the next one. 

_ Secretly, I dream of being free.  _

* * *

Walburga’s portrait hangs by the front door of Grimmauld, and it’s as nasty as ever. Mrs. Black sneers at all the house’s occupants, curses at her son, and has a particular fondness of referring to Remus as “the half-breed.”

Normally, he helps Sirius close the curtains with some difficulty. Today he is alone in the house—or as alone as he can get. Sirius is up on the third floor with Buckbeak, and this is routine enough for Remus to know that he won’t be coming down anytime soon. 

So before Walburga can open her mouth to scream out his arrival, he inclines his head to her. “Good evening,” he says softly. He wonders if there is any of the girl left in her, any leftover longing for freedom. 

Walburga barely hesitates before greeting him with the same insults as usual. 

Remus only smiles and continues into the house. He goes into the sitting room and takes out the parchment, which he’s stuck in his coat pocket for reasons that elude even himself. He tugs off his worn Gryffindor scarf and begins to read. 

_ I won’t be trapped here forever. Orion may think that he can control me, but I know how to pull the strings. _

Remus must concede that Walburga Black was an intelligent, if cunning, woman. 

He greets her every evening, now. A concern blossoms in her grey eyes, as though this loss of intimidation has frightened her more than anything else could. Still, Remus makes pleasantries. He brushes snow from his greying tawny hair and comments on the weather, or he runs a hand along his stubbled jaw as he wonders what Molly will make for dinner. 

Walburga eventually ceases her shouting, but she still eyes him distrustfully. Remus can’t blame her; he’s read her journal. He knows the world she grew up in, knows what she was led to believe. He knows that her fiery spirit has dimmed considerably since her childhood. 

He knows the feeling. There is a strong part of him that wants to bring her back to life, since he can’t seem to make himself come alive. Or maybe he just wants to feel like he’s needed in this world, because Harry certainly doesn’t need him and Sirius is trying to forget the past. 

Whatever the case, he wants Walburga to feel heard. 

One day, she lifts a brow at him elegantly. “Who are you?” she asks, and he is surprised by how pleasing her voice is when she isn’t yelling. 

“Remus Lupin,” he says honestly. He smiles mildly at her, and on an impulse, he takes the parchment from his pocket. “I’m afraid I know you a bit better than you know me.”

She doesn’t scream like he expects her to. Instead, her whole body goes still. Her beautiful face is a careful mask, and it unnerves Remus. He knows better than anyone how easy it is to hide pain, no matter how devastating. 

Walburga lifts an eyebrow haughtily. “You don’t know me,” she tells him. “You filthy half-breed. You  _ can’t _ know me.”

But Remus does. He does, and that fact is as terrifying as it is thrilling. He lifts an arm and watches his sleeve slip, baring the scarred skin of his forearm to the woman staring at him from the portrait. 

“I know what it’s like,” he whispers, “to be caged.”

No words escape her lips, but her mask slips for a millisecond. It’s enough to encourage Remus, but he knows not to push his point today. He walks past Walburga and goes up the stairs, and though he knows that she’s only paint and memory, he can feel her eyes following him. 

He reads another entry that night. 

_ There is no key to this cage. I feel like I’m always grasping at air, reaching through iron bars. I can’t ever reach happiness. Somehow, though, Orion can walk right through the bars, as though he’s nothing more than a ghost. In and out, in and out; with me and without me.  _

_ I want someone who can’t leave. _

* * *

Remus smiles at her when he sees her. He inclines his head, he stays for one-sided conversations, and he wishes that this was something more tangible. 

But he realizes that he’s fallen in love with a person who understands what it’s like to be on the outside, to have to constantly pretend that you fit in where you don’t belong. The only problem is that the person he’s fallen for died over a decade ago. 

He’ll settle for the canvas and the letters. Words are enough. 

_ I’ll die fighting. I know it already. I won’t compromise my spirit.  _

_ Sirius was born today. He took Orion’s name as one of his, and I hate him just a little bit because I know I won’t be able to love him the way I want to. I have to raise him to be the man I don’t want him to become.  _

_ Sirius has my spirit. He has my passion, my temper. His life will be hell.  _

* * *

“You confuse me.”

The words are so softly spoken, Remus almost missing them. As soon as they register, his amber eyes lock onto Walburga. His eyebrows meet his hairline. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, but her eyes are slightly squinted with curiosity. “You keep coming back. You keep trying.” She frowns. “Why?”

All he can do is shrug. “There’s a certain companionship that comes with shared loneliness,” he tries. “I think we can understand each other, and I’m not one to give up easily.”

Walburga considers him for several seconds before replying. “Tell me who you are.”

For the first in his life, he doesn’t shy away from this. He’s honest with her. It’s liberating. 

In sparing detail, he explains the stigma associated with his curse. He tells her about the tightrope he walks each day, about how every word has to be measured carefully and every injustice has to be let go. 

And Walburga doesn’t flinch away from him. There is no sneer on her face. Her mouth curls up into a sad, understanding smile; the first Remus has ever seen her wear. 

It feels like exhaling after holding his breath for—for over thirty years. There is no more waiting for pity, or for hate, or for disgust. She knows, and it has made him appear  _ more _ human to her, not less. He’s breathing, now. Actually breathing. 

He thinks, privately, that she’s given him the means to escape his own cage.

* * *

He’s become addicted to her words. It’s nice to be able to speak with her portrait, of course, but Remus begins to long for the real Walburga Black, not an artist’s image of her. He wants her true self to see and understand him. 

But she’s dead. Every day it becomes harder to remember, because the more he reads her writing, the more alive she seems. 

He’s fallen in love with a ghost, he knows. He can’t bring himself to regret it.

* * *

He sees the green jet of light leave Dolohov’s wand, and time slows. He knows that he can’t outrun this one; he’s simply not meant to. This is where the Fates cut his string. This is where his road ends. 

He closes his eyes as the spell collides with his chest. 

Then, he opens them. He has left the battlefield; looking around, he sees that he is standing in a room full of witches and wizards in their best robes. They are chatting, sipping from crystalline wine glasses, and none are paying any attention to him. 

He is overwhelmed, caught in the thick of the crowd. Remus can duel like the best of them, can handle pain and humiliation and so much more, but this  _ party _ is so far out of his comfort zone. 

Two seconds in the afterlife, and he is hopelessly lost. This isn’t the tearful reunion he’d been imagining; James, Lily, Sirius, his parents, Marlene, Dorcas… no one he recognizes is here. He is alone. 

His heart plummets as he looks around nervously. He realizes with a jolt that he looks the part: he’s wearing robes finer than any he owned in life, and there is a glass of wine in his hand that he doesn’t recall grabbing. He is just another anonymous face in the crowd. 

Someone bumps into him as they move—somewhere. The room doesn’t seem to have any walls; it just stretches on forever. The man is a stranger to Remus, but his blue eyes light up when he spots Remus, as though they’ve been good friends for years. 

“New, are you?” He has to shout to be heard over the din. “I know that look. No worries, no worries—just party here until someone comes to get you.” He pats Remus’ shoulder. “Enjoy yourself! Time flies by so quickly.”

Then he continues on his way, and Remus is left to ponder his words. 

Gripping the stem of his glass in a white-knuckled hand, Remus begins walking through the crowd. The man is both right and wrong—time is meaningless here, and Remus can’t tell how long he’s been wandering. He feels himself begin to despair. 

“Remus.”

The voice floats over the noise, and Remus whirls around. It takes him a second to locate her in the sea of people, but once he does, his breath catches in his throat. 

She is taller than he thought. She is lithe, and far more beautiful than her portrait let on. The fact that she knows his name is proof that she has some knowledge of their conversations over the last few years. 

Remus walks over to Walburga until they are only a meter apart. He raises his glass to her, inclines his head. She lifts a brow in response, but amusement flickers in her eyes. Before him is the woman who longed to be free of the pureblood madness. The soul that Remus connected with is right before his eyes. 

Walburga extends a hand, and without hesitation, Remus takes it. She smiles at him. 

Now, they are both free. 


End file.
